Revenge, Best Served HOT!
by Brownbug
Summary: "I am the conscience, I am the knife, I am the chainsaw that cuts away your life. This is reaction, this is insane. This is my revenge - feel the pain!" He's back...and this time, the Doctor is going to pay...with the blood of his friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing in any way related to Doctor Who.  
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**Author's Note: The idea for this story sprang from a discussion I had with the wonderful Aietradaea. It's**** a stand-alone story and does not form part of my "One Moment in Time" series. **Hopefully people will still enjoy it and remember to let me know what they think. (And yes, before anyone mentions it, the chapters are intended to be short but sweet).  


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**- CHAPTER ONE -**

It was a beautiful night. The stars shone brightly in the velvet sky. The air was warm and balmy, the playful breeze scented with summer as it stole over the Cardiff rooftops. It was the sort of night the poets wrote sonnets about. The sort of night meant for love and romance. The sort of night that made you feel glad to be _alive_.

The sheer irony of the thought made the murderer smile. The pale, luminous moonlight caught the flash of his white teeth in the shadows, reflected back to him in the shimmering silver surface on the wall in front of him.

"_Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?_" he asked sarcastically.

Nobody replied. Heavy silence reigned in the small flat, broken only by the distant monotonous hum of city traffic. And by one other noise - tiny, almost unnoticeable, yet still distinct to his ears.

The steady drip of blood pooling on a polished wooden floor...

She had recognised his face, of course. It would have been strange if she hadn't, he supposed, with everything that had happened in the past. She hadn't even thought to resist. He hadn't given her the time. There had been just that one moment of pure, crystallised shock as she saw him with the knife, and then he had struck, violently and without mercy. Now she lay on her back behind him, her eyes staring sightlessly towards the ceiling, her lifeblood draining from her slashed throat on to the floor.

He'd thought he would feel something when he killed her...something, anything at all, after all that had gone before...but he hadn't. No triumph. No regret. Just coldness. And the pain burning in his head that never went away, but only got worse and worse instead with every day that passed.

A small giggle escaped his lips. A pair of too-bright brown eyes regarded him from the mirror, dancing with the wild light of insanity.

_See what you made me do, Doctor? She's dead, and it's all your fault._

Transfixed by his own reflection, he felt the familiar bitterness rising up to choke him. Somewhere out there, somewhere in time and space, the Doctor was still running, just as he always had, century after century after century. The man who makes people better, what a joke! Forever leaving his mistakes behind, forever refusing to face the consequences of his actions, without once looking back. Well, not any more. This time he would be forced to look back and he would pay dearly, with the blood of his friends.

_You abandoned me, Doctor. You could have saved me, but even though I helped you, you did nothing. Everything I've done since then is your fault. All that time, locked out of the Universe, trapped and helpless, as forgotten by you as if I had never even existed. You've never even mentioned me again, have you? Never even thought of me. Because that's who you are and what you are. All that time for my anger and pain to fester, all that time for me to dream of revenge. But at last, I'm back. And now it's your turn to suffer, because no-one in the Universe hates you more than I do._

Still grinning, he raised his black-gloved forefinger and examined it carefully. It gleamed scarlet in the moonlight, liberally coated with the congealing blood of his victim. Slowly and deliberately, taking immense pleasure in the action, he began to trace a distinctive, circular pattern on to the glass. Eventually, satisfied with his efforts, he stood back and admired his handiwork.

_This is for you, Doctor, _he thought. _A message that even you can't ignore, written in the blood of the innocent. And we both know that's the currency you've always dealt in, whether you choose to admit it or not._

Down below, he heard a click as a key turned in the front door of the flat.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" a male voice called cheerfully.

For a fleeting moment, the murderer had an overwhelming urge to stay, to witness the delicious aftermath of his actions. But he wasn't ready to be discovered quite yet. He had to be patient, or he would spoil the surprise.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. The murderer snickered again, turning away from the mirror for one last glance at his victim, slaughtered on the floor like an animal.

_And so the game begins._

Raising his wrist, he punched some new co-ordinates into the control panel of the vortex manipulator, just as the door handle began to turn.

"The Time Lords," he whispered to himself. "The Time Lords are the fairest of them all."

Then, as the door swung open, he vanished into thin air.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter - idancecrazy, TheGreatWhite, MayFairy, gallifrey calls now, Aietradaea, Son of Whitebeard and Theta'sWorstNightmare. It's great to have some support when I am trying something different in my writing, so I really appreciate the feedback._  
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**- Chapter Two - **

The Doctor sat on the stairs leading down to the entrance to his TARDIS and flipped his sonic screwdriver in the air, before catching it again. He repeated this action two or three times, before sighing loudly and laying back on the glass platform to stare up at the ceiling of the time machine, listening to the steady hum of the time rotor. Boring. _Boring, boring, boring_. Yep, there was no doubt about it, being dead was boring. Especially when you weren't really dead at all and people only thought you were. Oh, the _logic_ of it was clear. He'd been getting too loud in the Universe, too obvious. So now he needed to step back into the shadows, to give him a chance to sort out what the Silence was all about and to figure out what this question was, hiding in plain sight, that should never be asked. And having all his enemies think that River had shot him dead at Lake Silencio gave him the perfect opportunity.

Trouble was, at the moment he didn't have much to go on, and he was getting restless. And he missed the Ponds. He hated not having a companion. The TARDIS always seemed so empty and echoey without anyone else in it. There was no point coming up with dozens of witty, cool things to say if there was no-one to listen and to tell him how brilliant he was. Not that Amy and Rory had commented on his brilliance very often. In fact, Amy was probably more likely to tell him he was being an idiot. But he still missed their company.

Suddenly, the phone on the console began to ring, a shrill summons slicing through the peaceful stillness of the console room. Excited at the unexpected interruption, the Doctor leapt up to answer it, before pausing with his hand hovering indecisively over the vibrating receiver. He was supposed to be dead. Dead people shouldn't really answer their phone, should they? Whoever it was obviously didn't know he supposed to be dead. By answering, he would blow his cover.

The phone rang again. Whatever it was, it was bound to be more interesting than sitting here feeling sorry for himself.

_What the heck, _he thought impulsively. _Let's take a walk on the wild side!_

With that, he snatched the receiver into his hand. "Hello, caller. You're in luck, the Doctor is _in_!"

"Doctor?" a familiar male voice queried.

"JACK!" the Doctor exclaimed exuberantly. "Long time, no speak! How is everything?"

"Not so good, actually," Jack replied in a thick, choked voice. To the Doctor's alarm, it sounded as if he was crying.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Martha's dead, Doctor. She's been murdered. And the police think Mickey did it."

* * *

A light, teasing breeze blew across Roald Dahl Plass, sending a few dry leaves skittering across the paving in a merry, swirling dance. The Doctor drew up the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the TARDIS and looked around the oval shaped arena. It had been a long time since he had been here – not since the end of the Year That Never Was, when he had dropped Jack off and left him behind. Dawn was just breaking in a wave of pink and silver. The city was beginning to stir, but for now, the Plass was deserted except for a familiar tall, dark-haired figure in a greatcoat, waiting patiently for him.

"Jack," he said cautiously. He wasn't quite sure how this meeting would go, to be honest. There had been quite a lot of water under the bridge since they had last seen each other. It was always uncomfortable encountering old companions again, which was probably why he made sure he didn't do it very often. Too much guilt. Too many recriminations.

"Doctor," the other man responded, his tone equally wary. But then he suddenly stepped forward and enveloped the Time Lord in a big bear hug, holding on to him tightly. "Good to see you."

"And you," the Doctor said as they separated again.

Jack looked him up and down in the old, playful, flirty way. But the Doctor couldn't help noticing that his eyes were bleak and full of sadness. Jack and Martha had been close and he was obviously feeling her loss deeply. "New regeneration...I like what you've done with it. Not sure about the whole bow-tie thing though."

"Bow-ties are cool," the Doctor replied. He had used the huffy comeback so many times by now that it was almost an automatic response. But today, with Martha's death hanging over them like a shadow, neither of his hearts were really in it. "What happened, Jack?"

The other man gave a sigh. "I don't know. I wish I did. Martha and Mickey have been working for Torchwood as freelance consultants here in Cardiff. I've been helping to establish a base of operations in the USA with a man named Rex Matheson. Martha and Mickey have been helping Gwen to hold down the fort here. Two days ago I got a phone call from Gwen to tell me Martha had been murdered in her flat. Her throat had been cut with one of her own kitchen knives. Apparently Mickey arrived home shortly after it happened and was so upset when he found her that he made the mistake of picking up the knife. There was no sign of any forced entry or of any struggle and no other fingerprints or DNA except for Mickey's."

"Which is why the police arrested Mickey, right?" the Doctor surmised. "If in doubt, always pick the husband. But there's no way someone as feisty as Martha would just let someone walk up to her and cut her throat."

"Yeah, well, that's not all of it," Jack continued grimly. "I've still got some contacts in the Cardiff Bay Police, even though Torchwood personnel tend to be _persona non grata _around here these days. I've managed to get my hands on some of the crime scene photos and I think there's one you need to see."

With that, he handed the Doctor his Torchwood PDA. There was a photo already on the screen. The Doctor stared at it. It appeared to be a mirror, with a series of intricate, circular patterns inscribed across it in thick, red lines.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jack asked, in the tone of one who already knows the answer to his own question.

"It's Gallifreyan," the Doctor confirmed, a new sense of horror starting to creep over him as he traced the elaborate script with his eyes.

"Yeah, I figured that. It was found in Martha's bedroom, right next to where she was killed. I'm guessing it's a message for you," Jack told him bleakly. "What does it say?"

The Doctor shook his head in puzzlement. "It's a number...the number three."

"Three? That's it? That's _all_? But what's that supposed to mean?"

"I have no idea," the Doctor said worriedly. "But I think it's time you used your police contacts to get me in to see Mickey, right away."

* * *

Jack was as good as his word. Within the hour, Police Sergeant Andy Davidson had escorted them into the depths of the Cardiff Bay Police Station, where Mickey had been incarcerated in a temporary holding cell until the police completed their investigations into Martha's death, whereupon he would presumably be officially charged with murder.

Sergeant Davidson was an eager, fresh-faced young man with a charming Welsh accent. He had once been Gwen Cooper's partner during her time on the force and he had maintained close ties with Torchwood ever since, often helping them behind the scenes. He had regularly expressed an interest in joining the covert organisation, but Jack had always refused, believing him to be unsuited to the rigours of regularly dealing with alien incursions. Besides, at times like this, it was handy to have an insider on the police force.

"I'll have to stay with you, Jack," he said now to the Torchwood leader. "It'd be more than my job's worth if anyone found out I left you alone with a murder suspect. I'm already risking a lot just by bringing you in here without authorisation. You've got five minutes, that's all!"

"That's fine, Andy, we get it," Jack answered tautly. "Just stay by the door and keep quiet, would you?"

The young Sergeant rolled his eyes, but did as he was asked without further comment.

Mickey was sitting on the narrow bunk in his cell, his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched in despair. He didn't even look up as the door clanged open, showing no interest in who his visitors were. The Doctor went over and crouched down in front of him.

"Mickey..." he said.

The other man raised his head, revealing a face ravaged by grief and lack of sleep. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from crying.

"Who are you?"

"It's me, the Doctor. I've regenerated again. I'm so sorry about Martha, Mickey. I'm so, so sorry."

Mickey stared at him for a moment and then glanced at Jack, who nodded.

"Doctor..." he said hoarsely. "She always believed you'd come back some day. It's been so long, I was starting to think you'd forgotten about us. But she never gave up hope."

The Doctor tried not to think about patient Martha waiting for him to return, only to die so horribly before he came back. He couldn't bear it. Martha the faithful, Martha the courageous, Martha who had never let him down. Martha who had loved him, once.

"I never forgot about you, Mickey, either of you. I've just been...busy..."

It was a lame answer. He knew it was lame, so very, very inadequate. But there was nothing else he could say.

"You have to find out who did this!" Mickey said fiercely. "Because, whatever they think, it sure as hell wasn't me!"

The Doctor grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. "I will, I promise. That's what I'm here for. But you have to tell me exactly what happened."

"I'd been working late..." Mickey began, his eyes distant as he remembered. "There was this report of a Weevil infestation in an old church in Tiger Bay. I went there with Gwen to deal with it. It was nearly midnight by the time I got home. All the lights were off, except for one in the bedroom, so I thought Martha was up there. I called out to her that I was home, but she didn't answer. So I went upstairs and opened the door and found her. She was just laying there in a pool of blood, staring up at the ceiling with this bloody great...hole...where her throat should be."

His voice trailed away and great, gasping sobs began to wrack his body.

"I'm sorry, Mickey, I know it's hard, but you have to tell me what happened next," the Doctor urged.

"I lost my head! I didn't know what to do. The knife was just lying there beside her – one of our own kitchen knives – and I picked it up. I don't even know why I did it. I was just begging her, over and over again, to wake up and speak to me, but she didn't. I tried CPR, but it was too late!" Mickey sobbed, his big hands clenching almost painfully around the Doctor's. "So I dialled '999' and the police came. I was holding the knife and I was covered with her blood. They arrested me and took her away in an ambulance."

"So, apart from the message daubed on the mirror, there was no sign that anyone else had been there?" the Doctor asked. "Nothing at all out of place? Nothing that would help us figure out who the murderer was?"

Mickey shook his head hopelessly. "Nothing."

"Sorry to interrupt, but we really need to hurry," Andy interjected from over by the door. "The detectives on the case will be back soon and I really don't want them to find you here."

"I've got to go, Mickey," the Doctor said, patting his hand awkwardly. "But I assure you, I _will _find whoever did this. You have my word."

Mickey didn't reply. He merely disengaged his hand and lay down on his bunk with his back to them, his shoulders still shaking with jagged sobs.

The Doctor got to his feet and he and Jack followed Andy out into the corridor. The cell door clanged securely shut behind them. Nervously, Andy led the way back towards the exit.

"So, Doctor, what do you think?" Jack asked as they walked.

Up ahead, Andy unlocked another barred gate and swung it wide for them to pass through, before closing it again and reattaching the keys to his belt.

"Well, it definitely wasn't Mickey," the Doctor replied thoughtfully.

Jack snorted. "I never thought it was! For one thing, Mickey doesn't generally leave little love notes around the place in Gallifreyan."

"No. There are only two people alive who should be able to do that. And it wasn't me."

"So who's the other one?"

The Doctor paused for a moment, before answering, "A woman named River Song."

"And where would we find her?"

"The Stormcage Containment Facility," the Doctor said curtly.

Jack's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the notorious high-security prison planet. "What's she in for, exactly?"

The Doctor paused again, even longer this time, evidently reluctant to answer. Then he said, "Murder."

At that moment, a blood-curdling scream echoed up the corridor, coming from the direction of Mickey's cell.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: EDZEL2, gallifrey calls now, MayFairy, Son of Whitebeard, words2live, Theta'sWorstNightmare and Aietradaea. Love you all XXX_  
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**- Chapter Three -**

As one man, the Doctor and Jack turned and pelted back the way they had come, pulling up short at the locked gate.

"Damn it, get this open, Andy!" Jack yelled, shaking the bars in frustration. "NOW!"

Andy was frantically fumbling at his belt, trying to tug the keys free. The Doctor didn't hesitate. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, the diode at the tip already glowing an eerie green. A high-pitched buzzing sound filled the air and the tumblers in the lock clicked open. Jack kicked the gate open with a metallic crash and then they were running again.

When they reached Mickey's cell door, the Doctor didn't even wait for Andy, who was bringing up the rear. He just used the screwdriver on the door. Jack drew his gun and together they burst inside, alert for any attack. But the tiny cell was completely empty, except for Mickey, who was lying in the middle of the cement floor. The air was full of the heavy, coppery smell of fresh blood.

"MICKEY!" the Doctor yelled, falling to his knees beside his friend.

Mickey was gasping for breath, a horrible, wheezing, rattling sound that seemed to echo around the small room, bouncing off the concrete walls. His eyes were wide with shock, his hands clutching at the long, thin wooden handle protruding obscenely from the centre of his chest. The cold, rational part of the Doctor's mind, the part that always noticed everything, told him that it was a large ice pick. There was blood everywhere, pooling redly on the ground beneath Mickey in a great, wet puddle.

Andy swore violently and thumped the alarm button on the wall with his fist. Somewhere back in the station, a siren began whooping madly.

"Hang in there, it's going to be all right!" the Doctor promised, supporting Mickey's head in his arms. "Help's on the way! Just hang in there!"

The injured man was shaking violently, his face filled with fear as he gazed up at the Time Lord holding him.

"Doctor!" Jack said, his voice full of impotent rage. Glancing up, the Doctor saw what the Captain was looking at. The back of the cell wall was splashed with Mickey's blood, inscribed in a familiar circular pattern. It hadn't been done as delicately as the writing left on the mirror in Martha's bedroom, scrawled sloppily and in haste rather than carefully and deliberately. But the message was still very clear.

_Four._

"Mickey, what happened?" the Doctor said urgently, returning his gaze to his dying friend. "You have to tell us who did this to you!"

Slowly and painfully, Mickey's bloodstained hand closed on his coat sleeve. His eyes were glazed over by now, the life in them seeping away in a steady tide.

"Doctor..." he rasped.

In the distance, they could hear the sound of running feet pounding along the corridor. But it was already far too late for Mickey.

"I'm here with you, Mickey, tell me who did this!" the Doctor begged, tightening his embrace, willing his friend to stay with them just a few moments longer.

"Doctor..." Mickey sighed again. But before he could finish his sentence, the hoarse sound of his breathing stopped abruptly and his body went limp, his head falling to the side.

At that moment, a group of paramedics rushed into the room, brushing the stunned Time Lord aside and commencing CPR with professional efficiency. But it was no use. The Doctor knew long before they declared him dead that he would never speak to Mickey again.

* * *

There had been a lot of questions and explanations and red tape before Jack and the Doctor had been allowed to leave the police station. However, it helped to have friends in high places, and a couple of phone calls from UNIT seemed to sort everything out. The Doctor just hoped that Andy wouldn't end up in too much trouble over it all.

He and Jack were back at the Plass, seated in the thin autumn sunshine on a bench not far from the TARDIS, a packet of chips open between them, the neglected food slowly growing cold and congealing. Neither of them felt like eating.

"Rest in peace, Mickey Mouse," Jack said, his head in his hands and his voice filled with grief. "First Martha, now Mickey. What's going on, Doctor?"

"I don't know," the Doctor answered heavily. "But according to the scan I did with the sonic screwdriver, there was a distinctive artron energy signature present in Mickey's cell. Someone's been using a vortex manipulator to get in and out again."

"Someone..." Jack repeated, his ocean blue eyes swinging around to fix steadily on the Doctor's face. "Someone who knows how to write in Gallifreyan. Tell me more about this River Song woman."

The Doctor sighed. "It wasn't her."

"You're sure about that? After all, you did say she's banged up for murder. Perhaps she's escaped."

"She didn't actually kill anyone," the Doctor said testily. "She's in the Stormcage for murdering me."

"_You!_"

"It's kind of a long story. But, as you can see, I'm very much alive. And I can promise you that River would never do anything like this."

Jack frowned, clearly unwilling to let such an obvious solution go. "How do you know?"

"Because she's my wife."

"Whoa!" Jack exclaimed, sitting up straight in astonishment. "You weren't kidding when you said you'd been busy, were you? When did that happen?"

"Not long ago. It was a bit of an impromptu thing, no time to send out invitations," the Doctor said gruffly. He was still getting used to the fact that he was married himself. Sometimes it all seemed like a dream, or something that had happened to someone else. However, he didn't feel like explaining any of that to Jack, especially when they had so much else going on. "But if someone is murdering my friends to satisfy some sort of grudge against me, then it isn't River."

There was a deep silence for a moment. Then Jack said, "Then there's only one other possible answer, isn't there? He's back."

The Doctor said nothing. He didn't need to ask who Jack was talking about. If he was honest, he'd been having much the same thought himself. He just didn't want to admit it.

"Someone who hates you that much, someone who finds murder as easy as falling off a log, someone with enough skill in time-technology to create a vortex manipulator of his own, someone who knows how to write in Gallifreyan...someone who's come back from the dead over and over again!" Jack snarled, ticking the damning points off on his fingers. "Who else could it be? By leaving you those messages, he's rubbing it in your face! He wants you dancing to his tune all over again."

The Doctor shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "I _saw_ him fall back into the Time Lock with Rassilon and the others. It can't be him. Besides, this isn't his style. He always does things on a grand scale. He's an exhibitionist. He needs an audience. This is much too...personal."

"You really thought a mere Time Lock would stop him forever?" Jack scoffed, his handsome features twisted with rage and pain and awful, bitter memories. "And as for the rest, Doctor, don't you _dare_ start making excuses for him. You did too much of that last time. I looked into those eyes every single day during the Year That Never Was, while he tortured and killed me over and over again. No-one knows better than I do what he is. There's _nothing_ that sick, insane bastard isn't capable of."

The Doctor stared blankly out across the dancing waves of Cardiff Bay. Could it really be possible? Was he back again? For a moment, instead of the bustle of the Plass, all he could hear in the back of his head was a voice saying, "_Get out of the way!_" Despite the enmity of centuries, the Master had sacrificed his own life to save him. Had the other Time Lord now returned to redeem the debt in the blood of his friends?

"If you're right, Jack...if the Master is back and killing people..." he said worriedly. "The real question becomes, who were victims number one and number two?"


	4. Chapter 4

**_Author's Note: Thanks very much to the people who reviewed the last chapter - MayFairy, words2live, MountainLord-92, PhoenixFlame123, Aietradaea, Theta'sWorstNightmare and EDZEL2._  
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**_This chapter is dedicated to EDZEL2, who reminded me I needed to get off my butt and write the next chapter - thanks XXX  
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**- Chapter Four -**

Before Jack could reply, there was a loud, beeping sound from the pocket of his greatcoat. With a slight frown of irritation, he pulled out his PDA and checked his messages. All at once, he swore violently, all his muscles clenched as if he wanted to hurl the device as far away from him as he could.

"I knew it!" he snarled furiously. "That bastard! That goddamn _bastard_!"

"What?" the Doctor demanded. "Jack, _what_?"

Almost shaking with rage, Jack handed the PDA over to him. For a moment, the text scrolling across the screen seemed to dance up and down in front of his eyes. He blinked rapidly until his vision settled and he could read the message. It had apparently been sent from an anonymous source, but the mocking content required no explanation.

"_**How many more can you stand to lose, Captain Freak? Run, run, just as fast as you can...can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!"**_

A cold shiver passed over the Doctor's skin. It was an out-and-out challenge, a taunt, something which could not be more typical of the Master. And the reference to Captain Freak, the derisive name the other Time Lord had always called Jack on board the _Valiant_ during 'The Year That Never Was'...the evidence just kept on piling up. Every clue they uncovered, every single indication, seemed to point conclusively to the fact that the Master was back and out for revenge. So why did he still have such a strong feeling that he was being led up the garden path?

At the bottom of the screen was a series of letters and numbers, obviously a map reference. Even as the Doctor was reading, Jack was already feeding the information into his Time Agent wrist-strap. "It's an abandoned warehouse in Butetown, near the docks." His eyes fixed on the Doctor's face. "But why tell us where he is? It has to be a trap."

"Yes, well, thank you, Captain Obvious," the Doctor snapped, his worry overflowing into sarcasm. "Of course it's a trap! It couldn't be more evident if there was a big sign up saying 'Get your free milk and cookies here'."

"So what do we do?"

"If this_ is _the Master we're dealing with, he knows that I know that it's a trap. Even more importantly, he knows that I know that he knows."

Jack blinked in confusion, obviously trying to make sense of this convoluted statement. "So?"

"So this is more of an invitation," the Doctor said grimly. "He's got my attention and now he wants to talk. He always did like the sound of his own voice."

"And you want to go and listen." Jack's tone was cold and flat. The Doctor's propensity to forgive the Master over and over again was something he found incredibly difficult to accept.

The Doctor's jaw tightened. "What else would you suggest? If he's doing this to get back at me, the only way to stop the killing is for me to face up to him and find out what he wants. Like he says, Jack – how many more can you stand to lose?"

"Fine!" Jack said, pulling out his gun and sighting down the barrel. "Let's do it. Because I can think of an answer I'd like to send to that son-of-a-bitch's little invitation – a 38-calibre RSVP, right between his goddamn eyes!"

"That isn't the way, Jack!"

Jack got to his feet, his blue gaze like ice, emotionless and implacable. "Maybe it isn't your way, Doc. But it is mine. And Martha and Mickey were both my people. While you were out there swanning around the Universe, getting married, being _busy_, they were here, with me, on _my_ team, doing their best to defend the Earth. That makes them _my_ responsibility, not yours. So this time, we're going to do this my way. Now are you coming or not?"

With that, he strode away across the Plass, heading back towards the black Torchwood SUV, his long blue coat flaring out behind him. The bitterness in his voice stung the Doctor like acid, filling him with a keening sense of loss. Always before, Jack had viewed him as a saviour, a hero, a man who could do no wrong. Out of friendship for the Doctor, he had willingly given his life in a heroic sacrifice during the battle against the Daleks on Satellite Five, only to find himself cursed with immortality as a result. Then, instead of trying to help him, the Doctor had done what he always did best – he had run away and left him behind. And yet Jack had repaid him with absolute loyalty, patiently waiting over one hundred years to find him again, only to end up aboard _The Valiant_, imprisoned and tortured on his behalf. And never once had there been any recrimination or anger for what he had suffered.

But the Doctor had not seen him for a very long time and it appeared that, in his absence, Jack had finally realised that his idol had feet of clay. And while he might look the same as he always had, he was clearly much older now, much harder. He had matured into a leader in his own right and he was no longer prepared to sit back and allow the Doctor to run things as he saw fit.

With a sigh, the Time Lord climbed to his feet, the invisible weight of his long centuries of life settling heavily on to his shoulders. He knew it was his own fault if he had lost Jack's trust, but knowing it didn't make the loss any easier to bear.

Despite the bright sunshine flooding the Plass, he felt cold as he followed Jack across to the big, black car.

* * *

Once upon a time, Butetown had been the beating heart of industrial Cardiff, running right down to the Docks, echoing with the clanking racket from the enormous steelworks, black with dust from the coal exported from West Dock to the rest of the world. It had been bustling with life - dirty and noisy and a growing hotbed of crime. But in the latter half of the twentieth century, the area had begun to decline. Coal exports had ceased and West Dock had closed, leaving buildings abandoned and warehouses crumbling into decay. Since the dawn of the new century, many of the waterfront areas had been reclaimed and given an expensive facelift – they were no longer called 'the Docks', but 'the Bay', where everything was gleaming and new, packed full of exclusive restaurants and towering penthouses. But parts of old Butetown still remained, hidden in the shadows not reached by the bright lights of the millennium development, curling in on themselves like dying animals, clinging on to their ugly sprawls of brick-link tenements and tired old 1950s high-rises and deserted warehouses.

The Doctor stared out the window of the SUV, watching as the passing scenery became progressively more worn-out and grubby, smart new buildings swiftly giving way to ghostly old railway embankments, a street market, a series of shabby shop-fronts, terraces, a mosque and screeds of other traffic. The Time Lord couldn't help marvelling that two such different worlds could co-exist so closely, rich and poor living almost side-by-side, each carefully oblivious of the other. It never ceased to amaze him how humans could so consistently refuse to see anything they didn't want to see.

Jack spun the SUV though a confusing tangle of streets, before driving them down a narrow alleyway between several old machine shops and screeching to a stop in the weed-infested gravel bed of a dead lot. A large, bleak-looking red brick building loomed in front of them. Only part of it was still standing. The other half had apparently been destroyed in a fire a long time ago, blackened rafters reaching for the pale sky like skeleton fingers.

"This is it," Jack said, the first words he had spoken since leaving the Plass. "This used to be the Milner and Peabody Number Three Coal Depot. We're right on top of the co-ordinates he's given us, so if you're right, he should be in there somewhere."

_Coal, _the Doctor thought in disgust, as he climbed out of the vehicle. That was one of the other things that never ceased to amaze him about humans – their short-sightedness. As if burning up the non-renewable resources of their planet had ever been viable as a long term solution to their fuel problem.

Jack slammed the driver's door of the SUV with a crash, startling a flock of pigeons roosting in the derelict warehouse, sending them fluttering to the sky in a flurry of beating wings.

Picking their way carefully over the rubbish-strewn ground, they made their way towards the building. Jack's gun was sitting snugly in his hand, his expression taut and grim as he surveyed their surroundings, alert for any attack. The Doctor guessed that he had been here before. After nearly two centuries of living and working in Cardiff, Jack knew every inch of the city intimately, down to every last brick and stone.

"Can you sense him?" Jack's question was clipped and short, fairly vibrating with tension. His hatred for the Master seemed to colour the air around him, like a swirling black cloud.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not really. There's something here. It feels something like a Time Lord consciousness, but it's...muffled...somehow...different..."

"It's definitely him then!" Jack said, with an air of deep satisfaction, as if he had been waiting for the upcoming confrontation for a very long time. "He's hidden from you before. There's no reason he couldn't do it again."

Inside the warehouse was a single huge room with a cement floor. It was freezing cold. The afternoon was slowly dying and the sun had already started to sink into Cardiff Bay. Very little light penetrated the high, shattered windows of the decaying building. Deep shadows lurked all around, providing more than enough concealment for anyone who wanted to hide. Eerie whispers seemed to trail through the growing darkness, leaving an atmosphere of malevolence in their wake.

Back to back, the two companions stood, listening intently. The Doctor could feel unseen eyes watching them. The sensation was uncomfortable to the point of being almost obscene and he was very glad of Jack's warmth at his back. At first, there was no sound except for the soft cooing of the pigeons in the mouldering rafters. Then, very distinctly, they heard the sound of a demented giggle. It came from somewhere above them, from one of the gloomy mezzanine walkways overhead.

Both of their heads shot up, each of them trying to pinpoint the exact location of the sound. But the echoing acoustics of the old building distorted it, making it very difficult to narrow down.

"_Run, run, just as fast as you can...can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!_" a mocking voice sang.

The words seemed to circle around them, coming from every direction at once. The Doctor couldn't tell for sure whether it was the Master's voice or not. Not that it would mean anything – he had no guarantee the Master hadn't regenerated when he had fallen into the Time Lock. He could look completely different now, sound completely different...

But Jack didn't hesitate. With all the arrogance of someone who knew he couldn't die, he strode to the centre of the huge room and threw his head back in fierce challenge. "SAXON!" he roared. "Where are you? I know you're here, so come out and face me, you gutless bastard!"

Again, the mad laughter swirled throughout the room, sending chills down the Doctor's spine. The sound was just so lost and desolate, more insane than even the Master had ever been before.

All at once, something long and thin came arcing through the air with a lethal whooshing sound, moving faster than the eye could follow. It struck Jack violently in the chest, spearing right through him in an explosion of scarlet blood. To the Doctor's horror, he realised it was a javelin. Jack fell on his back to the ground, screaming like an animal, the sound full of sheer agony.

"JACK!" The Doctor ran towards him and fell to his knees beside him, but there was nothing he could do to help. Jack reached out a blood-stained hand towards him, his handsome face contorted in pain as he fought for breath, only to lose the battle. His blue eyes glazed over, all the life seeping out of them as he tumbled once more into the cold darkness of death.

Wincing, the Doctor took a firm grip on the quivering length of the javelin protruding from his friend's chest. He knew it had to come out so that Jack's wound could heal as the immortal man returned to life. It made a vile, squelching noise as he tugged it free, the razor-sharp tip dripping with Jack's blood. He tossed it aside, clattering on to the cement floor.

Again he heard a giggle, this time of pure delight.

"_This old man, he played FIVE, he played knick-knack on Jackie's hide,_" the voice chanted maliciously. "_With a knick-knack paddywhack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home!_"

Slowly, the Doctor climbed to his feet, his eyes searching the gantries above him. "Master? Master, is that you? I'm here now. That's what you wanted, isn't it? I'm listening to you. So stop playing games and come out and talk to me!"

There was a sudden sharp, creak behind him. The Doctor whirled around, both hearts in his mouth, to see one of the rickety, wooden staircases leading up to the upper regions of the old warehouse. Somebody was coming down, gradually emerging from the shadows, footsteps reverberating on the stairs.

"You'd like it to be him, wouldn't you, Doctor? After all, what's a few human deaths to you, if it means that he's still alive? After everything he's done and you still care about him that much – the very first one you left behind, all those years ago."

Another heavy footstep, another ominous creak. "Sorry to disappoint you, though." To the Doctor's shock, a pair of feet wearing white Converse trainers came into view, along with the hem of a long, brown coat. "Because it's not the Master. It's someone else you left behind. Someone else you abandoned. Someone else you _betrayed_!"

Bit by bit, the figure stepped into the light. Tall, thin, wearing a blue pin-striped suit, a quiff of spiky brown hair, burning brown eyes, a face twisted in an insane grin of hatred and despair.

"Allons-y, Doctor!" the newcomer spat, his voice dripping with venom. "_Allons-y!_"

Sickness rose in the Doctor's throat as he realised he was staring at his meta-crisis clone.

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_**Another Author's Note: And kudos to all those who guessed my deep, dark secret - it was "Handy" all along! No putting anything over on you guys, is there? :P**_


End file.
